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We d been driving all day from the Midlands to South Wales. As we approached the village of Laugharne, my mother announced that the landlady at the farm where we were staying was a Mrs Rees.
For some reason, I pictured this Mrs Rees as a cross, thin-faced woman in an apron with a rolling pin ready to bash disobedient six-year-olds like me.
Instead, she turned out to be the kind of farmer’s wife you’d dream of, with twinkling eyes and a lovely soft voice like thick butter. She cooked hearty farm suppers and made the best biscuits in the world.